A Trio of Hazards offers people from the many spheres of life as they clash against each other—and against murderers!
This collection is the last three books in the Hearts in Hazard series, mysteries and suspense with a dash of sweet romance. Set in Regency England, the novels are loosely connected and are complete, without cliffhangers.
Clarey Parton crosses the Atlantic to steal an inheritance. She hopes that no one discovers the rightful heir lies in a cold grave.
Jem Baxter returns to the England he fled three years before. He assumes the name James Axminster to conceal his past, one littered with misdeeds.
When a press gang sees two people traveling alone, they seize the opportunity for quick cash: they plan to sell Clarey to a brothel and impress Jem on a merchant ship. Fate brings these two lonely souls together. Chance helps them escape.
Yet escape traps them in another secret—one with murder as a bloody solution.
The Hazard of Secrets offers twists and turns as tight as knots. Can Clarey and Jem keep their secrets, or will murder force them to reveal all?
The Hazard for Spies
Disguised to Spy
Conrad Hoppock works with the Bow Street Runners to locate a French master spy. His search sends him undercover in a firm of solicitors.
Phinney Darracott wants justice for the murders of her sister and brother-in-law. Clues lead her to a firm of London solicitors. Disguised as a cleaning maid, Phinney prowls for the evidence. There she encounters Conrad.
And the lawyer at the center of the tangle of clues is shot dead while they watch from hiding.
Will Phinney and Conrad discover the connection between past and present murders? Or will two bullets solve the problem for the murderer and the French master spy?
Will murder destroy their chance for love?
Treacherous traitors and murders past & present create knotty problems in The Hazard for Spies.
The Hazard with Hearts
Rumors, Lies, & Superstition lead to Murder
The bride of the Earl of Sheldrake, Vivienne Northrup encounters ghost stories from venomous neighbors when she arrives at the Hall. Her husband is busy with the concerns of the estate, and his relatives are less than welcoming.
Then, while exploring the ruins of Sheldrake Castle, she barely escapes a stone dislodged from a tower.
Rumors whisper the Earl is a Bluebeard, killing his two previous wives. Others claim the first committed suicide while the second fell on the stairs. Which version is the truth?
Or were his wives murdered?
Two wives haunt the castle. Will Vivienne the third to die?
The Hazard with Hearts offers a determined heroine who confronts doubts, superstition, and the dark passions of a killer who wants every countess of Sheldrake dead and buried.
Regency Mystery with an Eerie Touch of the Gothic and a Dash of Romance
The Hazard with Hearts concludes the Hearts in Hazard series.
Two wives haunt the castle. Will she be the third to die?
Vivienne Northrup agreed to a marriage of convenience to reap the benefits of becoming the Countess of Sheldrake. While she explores the ruins of Sheldrake Castle, a falling stone dislodged from a tower nearly kills her.
Only then does Vivienne discover that the earl’s previous two wives died tragically. The first had jumped to her death from that very tower.
Or had the woman been pushed?
Had someone tried to Kill Vivienne with the stone?
In the gothic tradition of Victoria Holt and Dorothy Eden, The Hazard with Hearts offers a determined heroine who confronts doubts, superstition, and the dark passions of a killer who wants every countess of Sheldrake dead and buried.
The Hazard with Hearts is book 12 in the Hearts in Hazard series of mysteries and suspense, with just a dash of sweet romance. The stories are loosely connected with each story complete in one book.
2 Free Glimpses and 2 Audio Files
For an audio narrated by the Author M.A. Lee: Click the link to listen on PodBean.
If you prefer to read the first chapter, please click this document file:
Isabella receives a disturbing letter—only for it to be stolen before she deciphers it.
cover by Deranged Doctor Design
The letter claims that a spy is aboard the Garipoola, but is that the only person hiding their true identity and purpose on the passenger ship?
Read on for the Story’s Opening ~ Links are Below!
1
Isabella stopped at a cloth covered with carved bowls. The vendor had placed the bowls rim-down, to display the carvings of monkeys, elephants, and swirls. Intrigued, she knelt for a closer look.
The bowls spanned a wide spectrum of wood tones, light to dark. She touched a light-colored bowl with monkeys in palm trees. “What is this wood?”
“Sagwan.” He repeated it. When she touched a rose-colored wood with little carving but lovely arches, he said, “Sheesham, sheesham.” He hovered his hand over a series of bowls. “Nilambur” was a mandala. “Nagpur” had columns like a palace collonade. Tigers slinking through reeds was “Mango.”
“And cedar” she named the rust-red bowl.
He plucked the bowl off the ground cloth and turned it upright. Warmed by the sun, the redolent cedar reminded her of clothes presses and chests. Elephants with lifted trunks paraded around the bowl balanced on his hand.
“May I?” She extended her hand.
He bobbed his head. Dark hair fell over his forehead. “You look. You look good.” Like any merchant from ages old, he knew touching the product would often sell it.
Closer inspection revealed that each elephant wore a headband and a cloth over its back, this one ornamented with beads, that one with cross-hatches, a third with swirls, and all parading before a different background. The elephant with flowers marched before a temple; the one with cross-hatches walked through a jungle. Eight elephants in all, which the missionary Miss Harlow had claimed was a fortunate number.
Isabella hadn’t found anything that called to her like these elephants. Within a few minutes, she owned the bowl, and the vendor grinned from ear to ear. She had likely paid too much, but she had no taste for haggling over a price. Mindful of Col. Werthy’s advice at the market in Bombay, before they’d parted ways, she had halved the man’s amount. He countered, she paid, and they were both happy with the transaction. The vendor even wrapped the bowl in a vivid green cloth.
When she stood, a passerby knocked into her. She stumbled.
A hand from nowhere steadied her. “Missy good?” her vendor asked.
“Yes, I’m fine. Thank you,” she directed at the man, but he was gone.
The vendor settled cross-legged at the back of his cloth. Isabella stepped into the flow of the market and let the current take her forward.
The artist in her loved the vivid colors of the canopies over the booths and open shop fronts. Saffron yellow, emerald green and spring green, poppy red and persimmon, tangerine and heavenly azure, and peacock blue, the colors rioted along both sides of the street. The myriad objects for sale, the varied faces of the vendors, male and female, all started a longing to capture the market with its energy. She would need oils. Watercolors would be too diluted. She yearned for a faster paint than oils or the ability to take color photographs. In black-and-white snapshots, the market would look a crowded mess.
A man in pristine white loose jacket and trousers bumped into her. When she edged over, he remained plastered to her shoulder. “Are you on the Garipoola?”
His British accent surprised her as much as his knowledge of her ship. Isabella gaped at him.
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“You know Col. Werthy?”
He had sherry brown eyes, a long narrow face, heavy eyebrows, and swept-back black hair. A beard had started on his defined jawline.
“You know the colonel?” he persisted.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He thrust a folded paper at her.
“He left the ship in Bombay, with his friend Richard Owen.”
“This is for you. Take it,” he ordered when she remained reluctant. “You must return to the ship. Hire a rickshaw. Here, I call one for you.”
Isabella clutched the folded note. Do I trust this man?
When he turned away, she faded into the crowd. As a western woman, blonde and pale, she would be quickly spotted in this crowd of natives. She cast to the other side of the street and hastened back the way she’d come. The current took her until she spotted a landmark that would lead out of the market.
Outside of the bustling market, she would be even more noticeable, and she hurried along the shop fronts. When she happened upon a rickshaw discharging a passenger, she crossed to the rickshawallah. “Harbor? The ship Garipoola?”
“Yes, Missy.”
“How much?”
He looked offended. “Pay at end.”
The rain started as she settled onto the wooden seat. She leaned back to stay under the umbrella canopy. The man picked up the iron bars and began pulling.
As the rain fell, cooling the heated air, his speed increased. Bare feet splashed through the forming puddles, undeterred while others sought shelter from the sudden monsoon rain. Streams poured along the streets and became freshet floods as the deluge continued. Thunder rumbled, but the rickshawallah never paused.
Her skirt was soaked when they reached the harbor. The man ran all the way to the Garipoola’s mooring. He offered to carry her up the gangway but didn’t seem offended by her refusal. By the time Isabella paid him and reached the ship, she was soaked through. Then, in a twist almost anticipated, as she climbed the gangway the rain stopped, God closing the tap.
From the ship, she looked back at the wharf. Her rickshawhallah was running back to the city, his rickshaw bouncing behind him. A woman had emerged from the port office. A western woman. Then raindrops peppered down, and Isabella hurried to her cabin.
She didn’t slip the note from her purse until she changed from her wet clothes, hanging them in her lavatory to drip dry. Then she unwrapped her bowl and added the green cloth to the shower rod. The elephant bowl fit perfectly on the tiny table jutting from the wall by the head of her bed. She tucked her little alarm clock under the shade of the bed lamp. Only then did she unfold the note.
It didn’t make sense.
A bottle of whisky should cover the cost. Bring it with you. The red man won’t expect the change. Better to have the switch ready. Whiskers shouldn’t delay. A cold clime awaits him if we don’t succeed. Dead men have skeletons.
At the last sentence, a cold chill ran over her.
A flourishing W was the signature.
Is a page missing? But no, the writing didn’t cover the sheet.
The man had used Werthy’s name. Is W my Col. Werthy?
Werthy was a spy—along with Richard Owen and Sheridan Ingram. Yet they had disembarked, Ingram in Muscat, Werthy and Owen in Bombay.
Other spies could still be aboard the Garipoola, traveling together to their assignments in the Orient.
Dead men have skeletons.
With that line, the note acquired sinister and lethal meaning. Had the note been meant for a spy? Did that man mistake me for a spy? Isabella wanted to laugh, but danger prickled over her. He had mistaken her for someone. A woman on the Garipoola. A blonde?
Savina Fremont was blonde, but that young lady could not be the spy. The divorcée Edwina Bridgewater was a platinum blonde from the bottle, with dark lashes and penciled eyebrows to highlight her eyes. Good sense ruled against the flirtatious Mrs. Bridgewater as a cool-headed spy.
Or would that be the perfect cover for a spy? A little frittery, a lot man-crazy, her conversation revolving around fashion and society gossip. Isabella would never have given any suspicion of spying a second thought.
The other blondes aboard were married. Lady Saunders. Mrs. Malcolm, a greying blonde. Mrs. Reynolds, bound to Australia with her family. At least three other women along with the women in third-class. Were the husbands a decoy? She found herself second-guessing everything she knew about several passengers.
This note was obviously in code. Did it talk about four people or three? The red man. Whiskers. The him avoiding a cold climate—Siberia? She’d heard the Bolsheviks sentenced prisoners to the frigid north. The fourth would be the skeleton. The him and the potential skeleton might be the same person.
The recipient made the fifth person—or fourth. Obviously, the red man was a contact—with a lead to the him. And did Whiskers assist the recipient, or was he a threat to keep the note’s recipient from delaying?
Ship’s bell rang off the time. She counted the strikes even as she checked the time on her little alarm clock. Dinner would be in a half-hour. Her stomach growled in response.
She could puzzle out this note for her evening’s entertainment. Mr. Fullerton had already told her that he would not be available tonight for their usual game of bridge. Since Clive Rexton had abandoned them in Bombay, a worthy third and fourth for bridge were hard to find.
As Isabella re-folded the note, she remembered the poison pen letter stolen from her cabin—oh, ages ago, it seemed. A single line had warned her not to encourage Col. Werthy. She had ignored that warning, and Werthy had turned into a good friend. (Too good of a friend, her heart reminded, but she ignored that, too.)
Stealing a letter twice on one voyage—that wouldn’t happen. Besides, Savina Fremont had penned the earlier letter then stolen it back. The young woman had remained in hot pursuit of Werthy throughout the voyage, but he hadn’t looked back when he left the ship. Savina didn’t have anything to do with this note.
Perhaps, just perhaps, she might find a clue about the intended recipient, a blonde woman on the Garipoola.
The ship would cast off late tonight and start its journey up the Indian coast to Madras where Isabella’s husband, Madoc, waited for her. That was a better focus than a cryptic letter she would never decode.
She refolded the note and placed it in the elephant bowl, weighting it with a piece of jade that Werthy had given her when they parted. Then she dressed and dawdled her way to the Dining Room. She was successfully late.
Dinner found her eying the several blonde women aboard from a new perspective. She dismissed the married couples. Lady Bernhardt and the Saunders commanded the best table, but Isabella hadn’t joined them since Bombay, preferring the Australia-bound Reynolds, solid working-class and eager for the opportunities in a new land. She’d introduced fellow immigrant Robin Kennedy to them. They talked so much about the next ship they would board in Madras that they didn’t notice Isabella’s distraction.
When she returned to the cabin, only the jade piece was in the bowl. The note had vanished.
“Red Mask” completes the Sailing with Mystery collection.
The short stories were great fun to puzzle out and write, and they brought new ideas and new people into Isabella’s world. I’m currently writing three novelettes with one of those new characters. I previewed the first of the three novelettes at Christmas. Look for all three to be officially published this summer.
Here are the Links for the entire collection Sailing with Mystery, available in ebook and paperback:
In Summer 2025, I set a challenge to finish three connected novelettes, entitled Courting Trouble. Challenge taken and achieved.
The first novelette, “Spanish Moss”, I had written as a gift to newsletter subscribers for Christmas 2024. Last summer I needed to finish the second and third, and I published those in July and August, with the collection publishing in September.
While you can read about the individual stories below (and purchase them at the bottom of the page),
The three novelettes created a tie-in Sailing Into Mystery stories and the Into Death novels, which feature the artist Isabella Newcombe Tarrant.
Nedda Courtland enters 1925 America with these stories as she is Courting Trouble.
“Spanish Moss” introduced Nedda to New Orleans with a murder to solve.
A Death, a Will, and a Way
“Poison” is one of the last words Nedda Courtland’s employer says to her.
Private secretary to a wealthy financier, Nedda has maintained a very British poise as she traveled the world. The New Orleans of 1925 brings it own unique flavor to her experiences. Yet nothing prepares her for Hyatt Ingram’s claim of murder in the hours before his death.
With no evidence as proof, she can only fulfill Mr. Ingram’s last wishes. Holding his absent son’s voting proxy and a new will, Nedda expects the murderer to emerge in the chaos she will create as executrix.
She never expects another murder.
Second in the series is “Texas Sun”: an Attempted Murder in arid West Texas
Means. Motive. Opportunity
The grime of a working oil field draws together people at odds with the summer heat and with each other.
In the heady flush of a new romance, Nedda tries to ignore the blazing tensions, yet troubling shadows have gathered.
Then Death makes his entrance, and the grim pressures erupt.
Finishing this brief sub-series is “Gulf Storm”.
Bribe. Conspire. Die.
A hurricane threatens to disrupt the wedding festivities of Nedda and Hank.
With the approaching storm are a whirl of human crimes, and an accusation of a past misdeed rages from the shadows. Murder caps the danger.
Will the hurricane’s landfall shred Nedda’s dreams, or will the death wreak a lethal destruction?
The covers I made for inspiration as I worked on the stories. I find such visuals help me to keep focused. My poor efforts served the purpose, but I absolutely LOVE the covers created by the professionals at Deranged Doctor Design.
Portrait with Death continues with Isabella while introducing two new characters to the series.
Flick Sherborne, intrepid photographer. Flick is brand-new to this series, and she quite surprised me when she appeared.
DI Michael Wainwright of Scotland Yard. DI Wainwright first appeared in Christmas with Death. He has a stronger role now.
A Murderer paints with Blood.
Why would anyone kill a school master? Motives abound, and suspects increase. Fellow teaching masters. A former soldier haunted by the nightmares of the war. Three ladies were rivals for Webberly’s attentions. Their husbands may have clubbed him and cracked open his head. A photographer. Three fishermen. A medic. The pub owner and his wife. The local constable.
Who committed the murder? Can Isabella find the answer?
A tangle of motives and hidden evidence complicate the murder in Portrait with Death, an amateur sleuth mystery set in a 1920 sleepy English village.
Portrait with Death is the third novel in the series Into Death, with artist Isabella Newcombe Tarrant.
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